


In the Blood

by darnedchild



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Halloween at 221B - A Sherlolly Celebration, Sherlolly - Freeform, Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2017, Vamp!lock, Vamplock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-01-21 19:16:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12464151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darnedchild/pseuds/darnedchild
Summary: Some secrets are better left buried. Especially in the Holmes family.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've always wanted to write a Sherlolly vampire story. Written for the 2017 Sherlolly Halloween fest.

  


**Part One**

Normally Molly didn’t mind covering the night shift in the morgue. She didn’t have to do it very often now that she had some seniority in the department; but “With great power comes great responsibility” and sometimes that meant taking one for the team and agreeing to cover Halloween night so Geoff and Samuel could each take their significant others to a couple of fancy dress parties.

Unfortunately, she’d forgotten to pack anything to eat when she’d left her home that afternoon, and the vending machines in the break room were disappointingly empty. She spent a few minutes debating whether or not to chance the ham and swiss sandwich that had definitely seen better days and a bag of crisps, or heading back to the lab where she’d left her laptop and seeing if the good curry place up the road was still willing to deliver this close to midnight. Odds were not in her favour, but the ham sandwich wasn’t likely to go anywhere while she double checked.

Her steps slowed as she approached the lab. The door was ajar. She was almost certain she’d closed and locked it when she went to find food. Hardly anyone came down to the basement this late at night unless there was an emergency or they were looking for something to steal. She shoved her hand into the pocket of her lab coat in search of her phone, and then cursed under her breath when she realized she’d left it next to her laptop.

Molly cautiously pulled the door open, and quickly scanned the room for any sign of an intruder. Everything appeared to be in place and the room was empty. 

She’d just begun to relax, telling herself that she must have forgotten to shut the door, when she heard a faint sound coming from the direction of the large walk in cooler in the back of the room. Something that sounded almost . . . like a growl?

Her first thought was how could a dog have found its way down there? 

Her second was to hurry across the room to snatch up her mobile. The smart thing to do would be to call security and wait in the hall until someone who was absolutely not her could deal with it. 

_But if there’s nothing in there, if it was just the late night and hunger playing tricks on me, I’m going to feel like an idiot. Right, a quick peek then._

She curled her fingers around the handle of the refrigerator unit, and eased the door open a fraction. When nothing slammed into it or growled a warning, she opened it even further and peeked into the crack.

He was lucky she would recognize that coat and those curls anywhere, otherwise Molly might have called the wrath of Barts security down upon his head. She pulled the door the rest of the way open and took a step inside. “Sherlock? You know you’re not supposed to be in here unsupervised.”

His frame tensed at the sound of her voice, and she heard that growling noise again. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up.

“Sherlock?”

“Go away.”

Molly jerked and nearly backed out of the cooler before she caught herself. “No, you know I can’t do that.”

He sighed and slowly turned toward her. Molly gasped at the sight. His skin was far too pale, his eyes shadowed and sunken. His blue shirt was covered a dark stain that she would have recognized even without the metallic scent that overwhelmed the small space. 

“Oh God, are you okay?”

“What are you doing here?” His voice seemed deeper than usual. 

“I could ask you the same thing. Are you hurt? Is that your blood?” Her concern for him had her closing the small distance between them to help.

He snarled “Keep back!” as he held up a hand to hold her at arm’s length. That’s when she realized his palm was covered in blood as well.

“You are hurt. Let me help.” She tried to move closer again, and he bumped into a shelf trying to back away from her. Several bags of blood that were being stored for haematology research slipped free and landed on the floor.

“Damn it, Molly. You aren’t supposed to be here. You’re supposed to be eating lunch.”

“Sherlock.” She made her voice as close to steel as she could, growing more worried with every passing second. 

The hand he was holding out to her began to tremble, his nostrils flared, and the last small hint of colour leached away from his skin.

“How much blood have you lost? Don’t make me wait until you’ve passed out, let me help you!”

He tried to shift away again, but his heel caught on a blood bag and he had to reach out to steady himself. Molly took advantage of the opening to dart forward. Her hands slid across his chest until she found the source of the blood. The wound was deep, she could tell without even seeing it. 

_Not a bullet wound. Knife? Something with a large point. Need to figure out if it's still in the wound._

She started to yank his shirt buttons open, intent on getting a better look at the wound. Sherlock grabbed her wrists and held her still. His hands were strong, but so cold.

_Blood loss. Probably shock._

Molly lifted her head, intent on reassuring him that she was going to get him stabilized and then call for help, but her words froze in her throat. Somehow his eyes had changed, the familiar pale colour had shifted into the most beautiful ice blue she had ever seen. 

She suddenly felt light headed.

“I’m sorry, Molly,” Sherlock growled. He slid one arm around her waist and yanked her close until she practically fell into him. She wanted to ask what he was doing, but her mouth was too dry to manage more than a croak that could have been his name. He wrapped his free hand in her hair and pulled her head back to expose her neck. She felt his lips against her throat, a quick swipe of his tongue, and then his cool breath against her damp skin.

_Cool? That’s not right. None of this is right. What is happening to me?_

Then her thoughts were overwhelmed by a barrage of sensations. She couldn’t see anything but starbursts of colour, couldn’t hear anything but the pounding rush of blood in her ears, couldn’t smell anything but tangy iron, couldn’t feel anything but a flash of white-hot pain at her throat.

He’d bitten her, hard enough to break the skin. 

As she realized he was sucking at the wound, swallowing mouthfuls of her blood, the pain receded and arousal took its place.

Even in the face of her fear, Molly could feel her body react. Her nipples pebbled and she grew wet. She moaned his name, and thought she heard him groan in response.

She had no idea how long it was before the world began to grow dim. Molly tried to push him away, but he was solid and immovable beneath her weakened hands. Tears slipped down her cheeks as she gathered up the last of her strength to beg, “Please, please stop.”

Finally, she felt his tongue glide across her skin, as if he were searching for every last drop of blood he might have missed.

Her arms fell limp at her sides and her knees buckled. The only thing that kept her from crumbling to the floor was Sherlock's impossibly strong arms. He lifted his head and his eyes were still that hypnotically beautiful colour, but now they were filled with remorse and fear. 

“I’m sorry, Molly. So very sorry.” His lips and teeth were stained red.

She tried to reach up, unsure if she wanted to push him away or pull him close, but her hands were too heavy. It grew difficult to breath. “Am-am I dying?”

The last thing she saw before she lost consciousness was Sherlock’s face twist in agony.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost forgot to thank Lilsherlockian1975 for the beta skills and moral support on this one. I had a lot of doubts about this chapter and she talked me down. Thanks, Lil.

**Part Two**

“No!” Molly gasped as her eyes snapped open. Her heart was pounding, but the ceiling fan lazily spinning above her was soothingly familiar. 

She was in her own bed, in her own home.

She tried to shake off the last shades of terror and betrayal clouding her mind and told herself it was just a cruel trick of her subconscious that the monster in her nightmare looked like Sherlock.

“It wasn’t a dream, Miss Hooper.”

If her throat hadn’t been so dry, she would have screamed. She jerked and winced at how the sudden movement made her neck burn. As soon as she managed to sit up, her left hand reached upward to delicately prod at the gauze taped to her throat. There was pain, but it was dull and itching like a healing cut rather than the sharp white-hot agony she was expecting after . . .

The image of a pair of unnaturally blue eyes and red, red lips slipped into her thoughts again.

Molly clenched her teeth and willed it away. That—what she thought she’d remembered—couldn’t possibly have been real.

Someone had moved her father’s old armchair from the sitting room to the small space beside her bed even though there was barely any room. Mycroft Holmes had settled into it at some point. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him looking so haggard and unkempt. His suit jacket had been abandoned, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his hair ruffled as if he’d run his fingers through it more than once, and there were dark bruises of exhaustion under his eyes.

“What happened?” Her throat really was uncomfortably dry. 

“Officially, there was a gas leak in one of the hospital labs. You were discovered unconscious but breathing. You are currently resting in your private room at Barts and are doing very well. If there are no complications, you should be released in another day or two.”

Mycroft leant over the arm of the chair and poured a glass of water from the pitcher on her bedside table. He passed her the glass without her asking, as if he’d been expecting her to wake up parched. She took it gratefully and gulped down half the contents.

“Unofficially?” she asked, although part of her was terrified to know.

“My brother. Thankfully, my people were already _en route_ when Sherlock called to update me, frantic. He . . . kept your heart beating until they arrived and were able to administer aid.”

She reached up to finger the bandage at her throat again. “No. That’s not-not possible.”

“I am sorry to say that you have had the misfortune to stumble upon yet another of my family’s dirty little secrets.” Mycroft hung his head as if gathering his thoughts, then drew a deep breath. “I imagine you have questions?”

Molly stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “What are you? Are you, I mean, are you like him?”

For a moment, he looked pained. “I am just as human as you are.”

Why, she wondered, did that make her feel as if there was something he wasn’t telling her?

“Sherlock, however, is not. Not anymore. Forget what you think you know about vampires, Miss Hooper. Most of it is pure rubbish.”

 _Vampire._ The very thought was insane and yet . . . 

She forced herself to try to focus on anything besides the memory of Sherlock and blood, so much blood, until she could calm the panic that was threatening to turn into full blown hysteria. “If Sherlock is a-a vampire, then how come I’m not dead?”

“My team had the first blood transfusion started within minutes of . . . the incident. Sherlock did what was necessary to keep you alive until-“

“Sherlock kept-He’s the one who almost killed me!” Somehow, of all the other things she wanted to say next, the only thing that came out was a heartbreakingly soft, “He hurt me.” After everything they’d been through together, after the broken way he’d whispered those three words six months ago and shattered her heart into a million pieces, after telling her he could never be the man she needed but he would always care for her, after every soft look and gentle smile. “He hurt me.” 

Mycroft leaned toward her and put his hand on the blanket near her own, not quite touching but close enough that they would be if one of them moved just a fraction of an inch. It was the closest thing to sympathetic compassion she’d ever seen him direct toward someone who wasn’t Sherlock; and that, more than anything, made her realize just how upset he was. “I know, Miss Hooper. Believe me, I know.”

He looked down at their hands for a moment, his fingers twitched. “Sherlock was mortally wounded in an encounter with a vampire hunter. Without blood, he was going to die. His best odds for survival lay with the supply set aside for his use at Barts.” He waited a moment to see if she was going to make the connection on her own. “The bags reserved for Dr Williams.”

“The haematology research.” She’d never seen the elusive Dr Williams himself, only his assistants who periodically came in to replace the older bags with fresh ones; but she’d never been curious enough to go looking, either. 

“Your involvement was an unforeseen complication.”

“Complication!” How dare he!

His hand slid over hers, entreating her to listen. “You have to understand; the bagged blood would have staved off true death long enough to give us a chance to reach him. But it isn’t as potent as fresh blood from a living donor, and it was never going to be enough to heal him. Your proximity was more than he could resist in his weakened state; his primal self-preservation instincts took over. In all the years since he was turned, something like that has only happened one other time.”

Molly snatched her hand away. “Is that supposed to make me feel special? He couldn’t resist the temptation, so that makes it all right? Am I supposed to forgive him now?”

Mycroft gracelessly slumped back into the chair. “No one expects you to forgive him, Miss Hooper. Least of all Sherlock himself.” He shook his head and grimaced. “I suspect, even if you were willing to offer him absolution, he will never be able to forgive himself for violating you and destroying your trust.”

She rubbed her temples, trying to fend off what was probably the beginning of a tension headache. “All these years, how could I have not noticed?” 

“You have.” Mycroft ran his hands over his hair, smoothing down the mussed bits. “Think about how skittish and flustered you felt you when you first met, versus how you feel now after spending so much time with him over the years.” 

“He did that?” She was beginning to feel nauseated, and it had very little to do with the earlier blood loss. How much of her past with Sherlock had been a lie? “I thought it was just . . .”

“A mere crush?”

“Are you saying that what I felt-“ His eyes seemed to bore into her as if he knew she was lying. “Feel. It’s not real?”

“It’s very real. The fact that your . . . feelings for him have matured and endured through everything my brother has done is testament to that.”

She realized she was picking at the bandage on her neck and forced her hands into her lap. 

“If it’s any consolation, it’s not something he has any control over. People recognize there’s something predatory about him and their instinctive reactions are strong. Sometimes it’s fear, hostility, distrust. Occasionally, as in your case, it’s the complete opposite and there is an immediate attraction.”

Molly flushed and looked anywhere but at Mycroft. It was true, she had been awestruck by Sherlock the moment she’d seen him. It took awhile—far longer than she was comfortable with—for her to remember that she was a mature, intelligent woman who wasn’t going to let her libido overrule her common sense every time he came into the room. Was that what Mycroft had meant? Had she been under the influence of Sherlock’s supernatural pheromones (or whatever Mycroft wanted to call it)? 

“Tell me, Miss Hooper, do you remember ever being so distracted by his presence that you felt as if you’d lost track of time? Have you ended up somewhere unexpected, and you couldn’t quite remember how you got there?”

It had happened a few times. She’d told herself she had been really tired, or that her blood sugar must have dropped too low, or some other excuse that had made sense at the time. “Sherlock?”

Mycroft hummed in agreement. “He can influence someone into remembering an event differently than it happened, or even forgetting a moment entirely. It requires a great deal of effort, however, and it isn’t something he does lightly. I’ve only known him to do it in order to protect someone.”

“Protect me from what, knowing his secret?” She knew she came off sounding rude, but she felt she could be forgiven considering the circumstances. 

Mycroft arched a brow and somehow managed to look down his nose from his seat in the armchair. “Do you honestly think my brother would have cared that you knew about his condition, if there weren’t outside forces to worry about? I have no doubt that he would have been delighted to impress you with stories of his outlandish escapades and ask your help with his research efforts. But that is not how things are done in the darkest shadows, Miss Hooper. You don’t get to know these things without being bound by certain rules. Ignorance really is bliss, in this situation.”

Molly gulped. “So, why didn’t he do it this time? Make me forget. Come up with some reasonable explanation for my injuries.”

He leaned toward her and held her gaze with his own. “Because this time it wasn’t some strange man waking up on your slab or another threatening to kill you because you witnessed the wrong thing. This time it was Sherlock. The only person he would have been protecting, if he’d taken your memory without consent, would have been himself.”

“And me? What if I don’t want to remember his eyes, the way he-“ 

_The way he made me feel. Wanting his touch, his lips and tongue against my skin. Needing his mouth and fingers at my throat, between my thighs._

Briefly, between the shocking pain of his bite and the numbing fear of death she had felt desire so intense . . .

Even now, just thinking about it made her tremble. God, if she didn’t know any better, she would swear that she could smell him; as if his scent had somehow imprinted on her skin.

She took a deep breath and realized she’d knotted her fingers together so tightly they had turned white.

“If that’s what you wish. But that window of opportunity won’t be open much longer.” Mycroft’s eyes cut toward the door and Molly knew with dead certainty that Sherlock Holmes was waiting on the other side.

Her heartrate sped up. She shook her head, almost violently. “No. I don’t want, not that. I don’t want to lose anymore memories.” She turned her gaze to the door and pitched her voice higher, louder. “Ever again. I don’t care how dangerous you think it might be. No more!”

“Calm yourself, Miss Hooper.” Mycroft blanched when the full force of her glare was turned on him. “I apologize. Your distress is understandable.”

“I should hope so!” Molly closed her eyes and tried to centre herself by taking several calm, measured breaths. When she opened them, she realized she was leaning across the bed, part of her yearning to be just a little bit closer to the man standing just beyond the door. It made her feel restless, uncomfortable in her own skin. “I can’t see him. Not right now. Please.” Something inside her protested her own words. Whatever it was wanted to see him, wanted to be close enough to touch him. 

Mycroft was watching her closely, his face an expressionless mask. “Don’t fear, he won’t come in. Not without your permission.”

A thought occurred to her. “Can he? Walk into someone’s place without being invited, I mean?” Before he had a chance to roll his eyes or say something derisive, Molly corrected herself. “Obviously he can. I’ve seen him do it. And you said to forget all that stuff they say in the films. Probably a no on the crosses, too?” 

He nodded. “Daylight, religious iconography, scattered grains of rice, roses and hawthorn, inability to cross a threshold uninvited. All stories invented to keep villagers from suspecting the pleasant farmer up the road might also be the beast that stalks the night.” 

“Stakes?”

Mycroft looked down his nose again. “I imagine a stake to the heart would kill just about any man, vampire or not.”

If she didn’t feel so anxious, she might have found his deadpan delivery morbidly amusing. This time, however, her only reply was a lip curled in a barely threatening snarl.

“And that brings us to another complication, I’m afraid.”

Molly grimaced. “I don’t know if I’m ready for anything else.” At this point, all she really wanted was for both Holmes brothers to bugger off and let her clear her head and think; something she suspected wouldn’t happen as long as she knew Sherlock was nearby.

“You’ll want to know this, I can assure you.” Mycroft began to unroll his shirt sleeves, not meeting her eyes as he smoothed the material and fastened each cuff. “My brother fed off of you.” 

She huffed, “I am aware of that.”

He ignored her and continued, “You were dying, Miss Hooper.” Molly paled but didn’t interrupt him again. “To keep you alive, he opened his vein for you.”

A wispy memory of something hot and wet trickled across her lips. The phantom metallic taste of iron filled her mouth. Molly thought she was going to be sick.

“It wasn’t much, just a few mouthfuls would have been potent enough to keep your heart beating.” If he was trying to reassure her, he was making a horrible mess of it. “You will likely experience some temporary side effects until your body has purged all traces of the exchange from your system.”

“What-“ She cleared her throat and tried again. “What kind of side effects?”

“I’m sure you’ve already noticed a new difficulty with controlling your emotional responses.”

That would explain why she felt like she had been bouncing from one extreme to another. 

“You’ll be stronger, faster, greater endurance. Nothing superhuman, mind. Just more than you may be used to. You will heal quickly. I expect that you will no longer need that-“ He nodded toward the gauze at her neck, and Molly reached up to cover it with her hand. “-by tomorrow. The scarring should be minimal, if not non-existent.”

Perversely, she felt a sharp pang of loss at not carrying his mark, Sherlock’s mark. How wrong was that? Molly shook her head and forced the thought away. “Is that it?”

Mycroft frowned. “One more. You are . . . aware of him.” 

That was an understatement. Her entire body nearly vibrated with the knowledge that he was in her home, close enough to hear her call his name if she wanted.

“Proximity will amplify it, but you will feel . . . something, regardless of where he is and how far apart you are.” Mycroft seemed as if he were about to reach for her hand again when she paled and drew in a sharp breath. He stopped himself and withdrew as far back as the chair would allow. “Unfortunately, that will take far longer to fade away than the others. It will become easier to ignore, over time.”

 _He knows. He’s talking from experience. He’s gone through this himself._

As if he knew where her thoughts had gone, Mycroft cleared his throat and changed the subject. “You have several different choices on how you wish to proceed from this point on, Miss Hooper. Obviously, you could take your new knowledge to the media; but no one would believe you. At best you’d be a laughing stock. Think of your job, your family, the risk to your very life if the wrong people thought you knew their secrets.”

That was a threat if she’d ever heard one. She wanted to ask who those _wrong_ people were, and how many of them worked alongside Mycroft in the British government but thought better of it after she met his eye again. “That doesn’t really sound like an option at all. What else do you have?”

“You will be offered a position at a hospital of your choice anywhere in England. You will also receive a generous inheritance from a distant relation that will cover any relocation expenses and leave more than enough for you to live comfortably for the rest of your life, considering your current lifestyle.”

Molly’s thoughts whirled and raced as she listened to his offer. That was far too much for a simple pay off to get her out of the way. Sherlock came from money, she’d never once seen him worry about paying the rent (no matter what he might have told John when they’d first met), but there was no way he could afford to set her up for life just to get her out of his hair. Mycroft, though . . . He might have the money, but did he have the influence to get her a job anywhere the whim took her? His authority could only stretch so far without the backing of something, or someone, even more powerful. Which meant this wasn’t strictly about outing Sherlock. That could explain how haggard Mycroft had looked when she’d first woken up, if pressure had come down on him to keep her from spilling what she knew and shining a light on the creepy things that lived in the shadows of London.

Part of her wanted to agree, to run as far away from London as possible, but she couldn’t do it. “No. I like my job, I like my life here. I don’t want to leave.”

He nodded as if he’d been prepared for that answer. “Then certain concessions will have to be made.”

What did that mean? Certain concessions about what?

“Aside from the blood supply stored in the lab coolers for my brother’s emergency use, which will not be relocated under any circumstances.” Mycroft narrowed his eyes and studied her, as if waiting for her to object. 

She didn’t, but she did set her jaw and give him a look that promised they would be talking about it again later. There would be a long discussion about locking doors and safety protocols because she was damned if she was going to let something like that happen to anyone else. Not tonight, not when she still felt as if her world had been turned upside down and inside out, but soon. 

Mycroft remained silent for a long moment, then nodded. Message received. “Aside from the stored blood, Sherlock has been using the hospital facilities to work on find a cure for his condition.  
Unfortunately, his work has proven futile up to this point. It is imperative that he continue to have access to his experiments and research. I . . . won’t allow him to give up hope after all these years.” 

“I wouldn’t want that, either.” Molly drew in a deep breath and straightened her spine and her resolve. “So what are you suggesting?”

“You will receive advance notice when Sherlock is _en route_ to the hospital if at all possible. Once he is in the building, a member of security will be on alert to ensure your contact will be kept to the absolute barest minimum. While Sherlock hopes that you will continue to work with the Yard on the cases he has been invited to consult on, in any capacity that you feel comfortable with, he fully understands if you choose not to.”

That seemed reasonable. Was it reasonable? Or did it just seem like that because Mycroft said it with such authority and her thoughts were so clouded and confused, half of her mind fixated on whether or not she ever wanted to see Sherlock again.

“I-I am willing to give it a try.” 

“Thank you, Miss Hooper.” Mycroft stood and reached for his suit jacket. 

“And Sherlock? What is he going to do?” Molly found herself asking before he could finish slipping it on.

He sighed and pursed his lips as the garment settled around his shoulders. For a second, she thought he looked disappointed in her. “I know this must be a lot to adjust to in such a short time period, but we did just establish that my brother will continue to have access to the hospital. He has agreed to give you as much space as you require and-“

“No.” Molly shook her head. “What about Sherlock? Will he be all right?” 

Mycroft hesitated with his hand on the doorknob. “What do you mean?”

“I remember his face, before I lost consciousness. He didn’t want to do what he did.” She wasn’t ready to forgive him. She honestly didn’t know if she’d ever be ready. But she couldn’t bear the thought of him punishing himself over and over for something he hadn’t been able to control. She remembered how he had been after Mary died. He’d given up, somehow managed to convince himself that it didn’t matter what happened to him because he didn’t deserve Mary’s sacrifice. “Make sure he doesn’t . . . Tell him that I will find him when the time is right, and that I will be very cross if he’s done something stupid in the meantime.” 

His brother nodded, the very corners of his lips tilted up in the hint of a grateful smile. “I shall pass that along. Good evening, Miss Hooper.”


End file.
